Name
by terrified
Summary: A one-shot. Molly learns her worth in the eyes of her favourite detective.


**Name**

Since he had 'fallen' off the rooftops from St. Bart's, no one knew Sherlock had lived, not even Mycroft. The only one who knew he lived, other than himself, was Molly, his trusted pathologist.

Her tiny, modest flat had become his sanctuary. No one would have thought to look there. No one would have imagined that the mousy, nervous pathologist would have had anything significant to do with the great detective. Everyone assumed she was just one of the million pawns Sherlock had. This assumption was not unfounded. After all, Sherlock assessed everyone by function and their contributions to his work. Above and beyond that, Sherlock had no other reason to associate with people.

He mostly appeared late at night, usually when Molly was just finishing some late night telly or relaxing with some knitting. In the first weeks, their interaction was silent. Sherlock would appear, eat some of the food she'd leave for him and disappear again. Sometimes he would take a bath, have a think on the sofa or stare out of the window. They operated in isolation, together.

After a while, she noticed he wasn't always so late in returning to the flat. Sometimes he would show up while she was heating dinner up. Or he would be in before she got home from work, trying to sort out her dusty collection of medical encyclopedias. And every time she did sit down to dinner, he would sit with her and watch her eat.

Then came a point where he began just talking to her. He would wait until she sat down, poured herself the occasional glass of wine, and the moment she began tucking in, he would talk. He would just start to recount the last moment he had on the rooftop, or his final conversation with Moriarty. She never could tell if he was talking directly to her. But he seemed to only speak once it was clear she was seated and he could have her attention.

On one of those evenings, Sherlock was remembering Moriarty's threat to kill his friends if Sherlock didn't throw himself off the roof. He was telling Molly how, at the point of the threat, Sherlock immediately listed three names - John, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade. He confessed the unusual sinking feeling he had in his chest when Moriarty uttered, _three bullets, three gunmen, three victims_.

When Molly heard this, she felt her own heart sink slightly but tried to shake the selfish thoughts that were growing in her head. Sherlock noticed her eyes dart for that split second and stopped his story. He leaned across the table, trying to catch her lowered gaze.

"What's wrong?" he asked, addressing her directly for the first time.  
"Oh…" Molly was startled that he had.  
"Something I said disturbed you." Sherlock said. "I want to know what it is."  
"I just…was feeling sad, for you." said Molly. "I mean, it must not be nice to know your closest ones….might die."  
"No, it isn't." murmured Sherlock, looking away.

Molly awkwardly reached for his hand, patted it gingerly and quickly resumed eating dinner.

"But that's not what disturbed you." Sherlock said, whipping his head back to face her.

Molly sighed.

"It's nothing, Sherlock, really. Just…carry on with what you were saying."  
"No, I want to know what it is." asked Sherlock.  
"I don't think knowing would be of any significance to you, Sherlock."  
"It's not your prerogative to decide, Molly."

Putting down her cutlery, Molly took a long, slow sip of wine and sat back in her chair.

"All right, I'll tell you." she said quietly.  
"Please."  
"You're lucky I've had some wine. Normally, I'm good at being quiet about these things…" she said with a small, sad laugh.  
"I don't understand…but do go on." said Sherlock.  
"I…got…sad," she said slowly, as though calculating each word.  
"Yes. Clearly."  
"I got sad, Sherlock, because…" Molly took a deep breath, "I wasn't someone you were afraid of losing…I wasn't…one of the three…" She then burst into a sad laugh and stole another sip of wine.

"I'm sorry." Molly whispered, "You see…I told you it was…nothing."

Sherlock's eyes widened slightly at her little confession and sat back in his seat, thoughtful. From that point on, the only sound there was came from the light tinkling of Molly's cutlery against her porcelain plate. When she was done, she quietly did her dishes as Sherlock moved away to stand by the window, thinking, as his eyes surveyed the street below.

When Molly was done, she turned the kitchen lights off and headed for her bedroom. She saw Sherlock standing motionless by the window. He only stared out of the windows at night, when he was less likely to be recognised.

"Well, goodnight then…" she said quickly, before stealing off to her bedroom.  
"Molly." Sherlock turned swiftly around, catching Molly just as her hand reached for her bedroom doorknob.  
"Yes?"  
"There's something I need to say. Something I need to tell you because clearly, you don't seem to have made the assumption I was hoping you would."  
"I…don't understand." she said, turning to face him properly.

Sherlock left the window and crossed over to her side of the flat. His expression was serious, but it wasn't harsh.

"I didn't mention you, because you're not part of those three." he began.  
"Okay. I don't know…why you're, um, stating the obvious."  
"Let me finish, Molly."  
"Sorry…"  
"John, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade, they are all very important to me. And after everything that's transpired since Moriarty, I have confirmed this to be true."  
"That's good…"  
"Moriarty knew the weight they carried, what they meant to my work, my life in Baker Street, everything that allows me to be what I am and do what I do."  
"I see."  
"No, you don't, Molly." said Sherlock.

He took a step towards Molly and reached for her hand. He held it firmly in his and looked down at it, earnestly. His thumb gently stroked her slim wrist as they stood there in silence for a few moments.

"I named the three of them, because I knew Moriarty would indeed use them against me, Molly." Sherlock said quietly. "And I listed each one of their names, to make sure yours wasn't one that he'd use too ."

Molly, taken aback from the warm touch of his hand, was further stunned by what he had said.

"No one must know you exist in my world, Molly." Sherlock continued. "No one must know that your name means more to me than anyone will realise. Not even you."

She was still silent, but slowly returned his subtle affection by wrapping her fingers tight around his hand.

"I just wanted to tell you that." he said. "So let it disturb you no more."

He let go of her hand and she immediately missed its warmth.

"Thank you, Sherlock" she said gently. Molly then tiptoed and gave him a soft kiss on his cheek. For the first time in a very long time, a small smile appeared on Sherlock's face. He leaned forward and returned her kiss with a gentle one of his own.

"Goodnight, Molly." he whispered.  
"Goodnight, Sherlock."

The two then separated and resumed their comfortable, isolated operations. Molly retired to her bedroom, deciding to read a book before bed. Sherlock returned to the window and this time, surveyed the stars.

It was probably a few hours later that Sherlock decided he had spent enough time contemplating by the window sill. He was sure Molly had gone to bed. Quietly, he tread over to her bedroom door, opening it carefully. The last thing he wanted was to wake her. To his surprise, her bedside lamp was still on as she lay flat on her back with her eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling.

"Did you want something?" she asked, turning to look at him.  
"No…I.." he had been caught off-guard. He was sure she had been sound asleep.  
"Did you want some dinner?" she said, getting up. "I can always heat up the…"  
"No, Molly, it's fine." he replied.

Sherlock found himself walking towards her bed and sat down at the edge. He turned to face her before laughing quietly to himself.

"I do apologise. I don't know why I'm here." he admitted, turning his back to her again.  
"It's fine…" Molly said, smiling, "You know I wouldn't complain.  
"I know, Molly. I know." said Sherlock.

Lifting her covers, Molly stepped out of bed and walked to the edge of it, sitting herself down beside Sherlock. He turned to look at her and she returned his gaze with unusual steadiness. She reached for his hand and wove her fingers tightly between his, grasping his hand firmly in her own. She brought it to her lips and kissed it, allowing her lips to linger on it for as long as she could.

"I don't know why you're here either," she said. "but since you are, why don't you lie down and have a rest?"  
"If I lay down here, where will you sleep?" he asked, genuinely confused.

Molly laughed softly and stood back up again. Walking over to her side of her bed, she sank gratefully back into her covers.

"Right here, Sherlock." she said, "Right here."

Sherlock then got up from the edge of her bed, removed his shoes and lay down on his side of her bed. He got under the covers and was grateful for the soft mattress that sculpted his tired back. He realised he couldn't remember the last time he'd slept in a bed, or the last time he'd slept at all, really.

Before long, the warmth of the covers and the softness of Molly's bed took Sherlock over like a drug. His eyelids grew heavy and his breathing relaxed. Sleep was mere seconds away but before he let himself completely sink into blissful darkness, he reached for Molly, pulling her to his side. Molly willingly obliged and let the weary detective wrap his arms tightly around her as he buried his face in her hair.

"No one must know about you, Molly." murmured Sherlock.  
"I understand now." she answered, gently stroking the hands that wrapped her. "Now, get some sleep."

Within minutes, Sherlock fell deep into rest, rest he hadn't experienced in a long time. Once she was sure he was properly asleep, Molly too, shut her eyes and slept gratefully, grateful that somewhere in the complex myriad of Sherlock's mind, her name existed.


End file.
